


My Own  Desert Places

by vampyreranger



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Attempted Child Abuse, Attempted Rape, Canon Character of Color, Character Death, Chromatic Character, Families of Choice, Female Character In Command, Female Character of Color, Female Characters, Female Protagonist, Female-Centric, Gen, Gen Fic, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon, Pre-Comics, Unconventional Families, Violence, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampyreranger/pseuds/vampyreranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The desert is my cradle, I was born here,</p><p>The desert is my road, I travel here,</p><p>The desert is my grave, I will die here</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Own  Desert Places

**Author's Note:**

> The Tuareg are a real tribe in Northern Africa and everything mentioned in here can be found on the Internet from sources such as Wikipedia. The summary is from a real Tuareg poem. Further notes and a glossary of Tuareg terms can be found at the end of the fic.
> 
> There is also a reference to a Megan Whalen Turner book. Free cookies if you can guess it! Last but not least, the inspiration for this fic was the following prompt:
> 
> I've got a good mother  
> And her voice is what keeps me here  
> Feet on ground  
> Heart in hand  
> Facing forward  
> Be yourself  
> I've, I've never wanted anything  
> No I've, no I've, I've never wanted anything  
> So bad... so bad

Hadir bint Nu’man always knew she was meant to be a warrior for the Creator and for her people. She was driven and ruthless as a child, never content to be anything less than the best in all areas of warfare and culture as a Tuareg. She spent countless hours practicing with takoba, allegh and agher, tagheda, taganze and amur, sheru, taburek, and abartak. She could ride horses, and knew how to drive a herd of camels through Tenere to the fertile markets of Timbuktu. She spoke French, Arabic, and the native Tuareg tongue known as Tamasheq. But it was not enough. It was never enough.

Hadir had little patience and no gentleness in her heart. She could dance neither tagest nor agabas. Her voice, while strong and loud, perfect for battle cries and shouting orders, cracked and crumbled to nothing in song. Her fingers, deft and firm when handling weapons and beasts, stumbled and faltered while attempting to play the anzad or tende. Her knowledge of poetry and skill with a loom were poor at best, atrocious at worst. Hadir was a disaster at the cook fire and burned whatever dish she was set to prepare without fail. She would never truly understand the womanly arts; never join in the bonds of sisterhood.

So in fulfilling her purpose, she drew the men of her tribe close with one small, calloused hand and drove the women from her with another. She would never be good enough for her mother, aunts, sisters, and grandmothers. She burned the porridge, croaked while singing, and offended the Creator with her music. She fought, she rode, and she spoke the language of men. She was artless, unwed, and useless.

As an adult, Hadir stood before the village a harsh and uncompromising figure, not overly tall with limbs corded with thick muscle. Her face was weatherworn, skin rough and scarred from battle and beast alike, underneath the indigo tagelmust that protected her from her beloved desert and proclaimed her ancestry. The body beneath the simple linen tunic and pants was lean, utterly without curvature or softness to mark her ascent into womanhood. Few inches of her body were without the marring of bruise, scar, or wound. She would never be a great beauty.

And so life went on in much the way it had for her entire life. One night, much like any other, Hadir fell deep into sleep, expecting to sleep the dreamless sleep of the righteous. But that was not the case that night. Her sleep was filled with confusing images, a wailing girl child, a warrior for Allah who’d lost his way, the towering spires of an imposing mosque. The sweet smell of poppies permeated the dreamscape, along with the thundering of war drums.

When she awoke in the morning, Hadir knew this was a vision sent by the Creator. Her purpose was clear to her now. She knew now what all of her training, all of her struggles, and all of her faith were for. She packed enough food and water to last the journey, collected and strapped on all of her favorite weapons, and saddled her father’s horse. As the first rays of sunlight spread their fingers over the desert, Hadir rode away from all that she’d called home without looking back. She would never return again.

The journey was long and arduous, filled with many perils in the form of man and beast alike. More than one man met his end at the point of her sword or the tip of her arrow. She would not have her purity stolen by infidels masking themselves as righteous. Nor would Hadir allow her precious supplies to be stolen for fear of delaying her mission. Nothing mattered more than fulfilling her destiny.

At long last the flat roofed homes and businesses of Kabul appeared in her view, seeming almost to grow out of the hills and mountains in magnificent descending tiers. Hadir could feel in her bones that she was close to the completing her journey and fulfilling her vision. She had only a few steps left.

Hadir wandered the streets of Kabul for hours, allowing the Creator to guide her steps. At long last, as the sun was sinking in the west, the final fingers of daylight painting the city in shades of red and gold, she found what she was looking for. There before her were the golden minarets she’d seen in her dream, stabbing towards the sky in supplication. It seemed her fate lay within the Id Gah Mosque, for better or worse.

Hadir went about her evening ritual. She set up her tent, prepared porridge, and took inventory of her weapons. When she satisfied herself that everything was in order, she pulled out a knife and her whetstone. Hadir carefully and precisely used the whetstone to sharpen her blades and the knife to maintain her arrows. She cleaned the pots and stowed her weapons safely away and was preparing for bed when she heard the unmistakable wail of an infant in distress.

Hadir lept to her feet, sword in hand, and ran in the direction of the crying. She skidded to a halt in a nearby alley, shocked at the events that were transpiring. A trio of hooded men was surrounding a crying toddler, one even brandishing a knife. She stepped further into the alley and shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?”

The men jumped, clearly not expecting anyone to interrupt them. The man with the knife smiled at her with madness in his eyes. “She is a devil, given human flesh!” he cried. “She must be put down,” another continued. “Do not interrupt Allah’s will,” the third man finished.

Hadir snorted, clearly unimpressed. “I know the work of the Creator,” she replied calmly. “And this is not it.”

Quick as a flash, Hadir crossed the remaining distance between her and the men. She slashed the second man across the chest and left him dying in the street. The third she stabbed in the throat for daring to hide behind Allah. And the first, seeing that her wrath was implacable, dared to hold his knife to the girl’s throat, using her as a shield. Hadir laughed, a cold, trilling sound, reminiscent of the grave and drew a dagger from her belt. She took aim and threw it, plunging right between the final man’s eyes. He fell to the ground, instantly dead.

“Come, child,” Hadir called gently, her tone at odds with her actions- wiping her sword down with the heretic’s cloak. She sheathed her sword and knelt down to the girl’s level, holding out a hand for her to take. The girl came to her, slowly at first, and then more quickly as she realized no harm would come to her.

“Yes, that’s it,” Hadir soothed as the girl pressed against her body and hugged her legs. “I will call you Aisha, she-who-lives. Do you like that?”

The girl nodded and rubbed her teary face against her savior. Hadir picked her up and carried her to their tent. In the morning they would leave the city and Hadir would begin teaching Aisha the ways of her people.

 

Aisha’s first memories are of heat and bright sunlight and the stench of horseflesh. They are of tough brown skin, rough hands, and a deep voice reciting:

The desert is my cradle, I was born here,

The desert is my road, I travel here,

The desert is my grave, I will die here.

Those same hands teach Aisha to ride horse and camel before she learns to run and that deep voice instructs her in Tamasheq every night as they sit before the fire at the evening meal. In time she learns to recognize the pointed ears of the fennec fox, the whiskers of a desert rat, and the eyes of the deadly hooded viper.

They roam Tenere in peace for many years, always thankful to the Creator in whose wisdom all are sheltered. Hadir makes small crafts from scavenged metal and sells them for what little money she and Aisha require for their travels. Sometimes they guard caravans of pilgrims on hajj to Mecca and Medina in exchange for water and salt. And always they are grateful to have found one another.

 

Aisha grows strong and proud, like her mother. She is tall and deceptively slim, every pound on her spare frame one of muscle. She is a swift rider, a good hunter, and has a special skill with the taganze and amur. She is cunning and pragmatic and speaks many tongues. She thinks she will live forever in the arms of Tenere with her walida.

One night in Aisha’s sixteenth summer, they are guarding a pillar of pilgrims when bandits attack. They come riding swiftly over the dunes in a malicious wave of ill-intent. Hadir fights bravely, slaughtering tens of men with her taganze and takoba. Aisha holds her own against the marauders as well, but the pilgrims aren’t fighters and there are two many bandits. Something has to give.

Aisha is fighting a burly man with a scarred up face when she sees what is coming and is helpless to prevent it. An anonymous bandit sneaks up behind her beloved walida and stabs her in the back, burying the knife in to the hilt. Hadir pulls a dagger from her boot and stabs her attacker in the eye, killing him instantly, but the damage is done.

Walida stumbles to her feet and throws her remaining daggers into the hearts of three of the six remaining bandits. She staggers to the fourth and stabs him brutally in the gut, opening up his belly and letting him live long enough to see his intestines spill across the sand. Her tagheda is thrown with the last of her strength, burying in the fifth and final bandit’s throat.

Aisha finishes off her opponent and runs to Hadir who has collapsed on the sands of her beloved desert. Her tagelmust has come undone and her hair is a mess, spilling around her face like a dark halo. Her clothes are ripped and torn, the skin showing through the rips a sickening mess of familiar indigo and the deep red of precious lifeblood. Her mother has never looked more beautiful or more victorious.

“Aisha,” Hadir calls. “You must never forget this moment and you must never forget this place. It will define you.”

“Waliditi,” Aisha starts.

“Hush,” Hadir orders. “You were my destiny and I have fulfilled my duty. Now you must find yours.”

“I will never forget you or our people, walida, never.” Aisha promises.

Hadir smiles sadly and takes one last breath, “The desert is my cradle, I was born here,

The desert is my road, I travel here,The desert is my grave, I will die here.”

And in that instant her voice is perfect. It is the most beautiful thing Aisha has ever heard and will ever hear. This moment and that song will stay with her until the day she dies.

Years pass and Aisha hardens. She cannot forgive a world that ripped someone so good and so true from its bosom with such cruelty. She trusts no one and nothing. She lives nowhere and for nothing. She travels the desert aimlessly, leaving a bloody swath of the unrighteous behind her. No one will have their mother stolen from them while she still draws breath.

Aisha stops in Timbuktu for water and to rest her mother’s beloved horse. It is there that fate finds her, swathed head to toe in Tuareg garb, wearing her mother’s tagelmust proudly in the style of their people. A messenger comes to her and hands her an envelope containing the details of the death of a man named Fadhil and his last redemptive stand for Allah.

In Fadhil’s face Aisha sees the warrior walida described in her vision, the one who’d strayed from his path and found it again too late. She knows what she must do, not only for herself, but for the woman who’d raised her as her own flesh and blood. She would kill Max and damn the consequences. And in the distance she could hear walida softly singing:

The desert is my cradle, I was born here,

The desert is my road, I travel here,

The desert is my grave, I will die here.

 

Glossary of Tuareg terms:

takoba: 1 meter long straight sword

allagh: 2 meter long lance

agher: 1.50 meter high shield

tagheda: small and sharp assegai

taganze: leather covered-wooden bow

amur: wooden arrow

sheru: long dagger

taburek: wooden stick

abartak: riding crop

Tenere: the one true desert

tagest: dance made while seated, moving the head, the hands and the shoulders

agabas: dance for modern ishumar guitars: women and men in groups

anzad: moncord violin often played at night parties

tende: gotaskin covered tambour which is performed during camel and horse races and other festivities

tagelmust: turban made of cotton and dyed with indigo that is wrapped around the head and face. Different styles denote different tribes, temperaments, and statuses. The indigo used in the dye often stains the skins of those who wear it, earning them the moniker "blue men of the desert".

Hajj: Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca

Walida: Arabic for “mother”

Waliditi: possessive form of mother re: "my mother"


End file.
